


The Mark and the Blackmailer

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Assisted Suicide, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Frottage, Gender Dysphoria, Intercrural Sex, Labor Unions, Misgendering, Multi, Murder, Period Typical Bigotry, Suicide, Trans Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22538875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: By day, Colin Hooper is living in London working at a morgue, presenting as a man. By night, he’s presenting as a woman and romancing Emilia Ricoletti. Emilia is dying and trying to frame her former lover Sir Eustace Carmichael for her death as a final act of revenge. Colin initially opposes Emilia’s plan, but eventually gets swept into her web of romance, betrayal, labor activism and murder. And then Sherlock Holmes shows up.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Emelia Ricoletti, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 62
Kudos: 52
Collections: Pridelolly, The Antidiogenes Club Book





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story had its origins as Yours By Any Name, written for Sherlolly Smuttember and eventually taken down. I was never satisfied with that story because I always knew it needed to be a novel. Here's the novel.

“My darling,” Emilia strode into her chambers, where I was sitting eating supper, “hide in the bedroom.”

“What?” I feared discovery more than anything. I was dressed as a woman, in one of the frocks Emilia had bought for me, but I knew that anyone who knew me who looked closely would instantly recognize me as Doctor Hooper from the mortuary.

“Sir Eustace has called. He insists he will be seen.”

“But here? Why not receive him in the parlor?”

“He deserves no such reception. Besides, I want you to bear witness.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

“Shhhh. No arguments.” Emilia grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the supper table. “Help me.” She gathered up the dishes so that it would appear the table was set for one. I stacked the clinking plates and silverware, careful not to slosh wine onto the tablecloth. She hustled me into her bedroom, set the dishes on her dowry chest, and rushed back out in a swirl of skirts.

For a moment I hesitated, hand at my mouth, and then I dashed to the door and crouched to put my eye to the keyhole.

Emilia sat at the table, at her place across from mine, and took a sip of wine. Her cheeks were flushed. Fever, perhaps, or excitement.

Beryl, Emilia’s lady’s maid, stepped through her chamber door. “Sir Eustace Carmichael, ma’am.”

He stepped through the doorway behind her.

I had never laid eyes on Sir Eustace, though I had heard Emilia say his name, often muttered between curses. He had a severe forehead and long muttonchops and a mouth drawn into a perpetual frown. He was not handsome. And I could not imagine Emilia ever finding him so. And yet, this was the man who had ruined Emilia.

“Good evening, Sir Eustace,” said Emilia.

He responded with a curt nod, his jaw tight.

“Will you sit down?” asked Emilia.

“I’d prefer to remain standing.”

I sucked in my breath.

Emilia nodded, as if this were all perfectly alright.

“Miss Ricoletti, I demand that you cease from assisting these agitators at once.”

I chewed my lip. Of course I knew I should take Emilia’s side against Sir Eustace. And yet I found myself hoping that he would sway her. For weeks now, she’d been offering aid to the striking workers at Sir Eustace’s match factory, giving them food from our kitchen and money from her purse. I was not without sympathy for the plight of the match girls; they worked long hours in terrible conditions, and many were afflicted with phossy jaw, their gums and teeth eroding from the poisonous white phosphorous of the matches. But I did not like Emilia putting herself at risk in order to assist them. Sir Eustace was a powerful man, not someone to make an enemy. I was particularly worried about Miss Hawkins, their leader, who was Irish and hot-blooded. Already there had been bricks thrown through the windows of Sir Eustace’s office in London. This would end in bloodshed, and I didn’t want any of it to be Emilia’s.

“I’m afraid I cannot accommodate you, sir,” said Emilia. “It would be un-Christian of me to refuse these women aid.”

“Do not pretend you are truly concerned about the well-being of the workers. We both know this is about your petty need for revenge.”

She lifted her chin. “I do not know to what you are referring.”

He balled his hands into fists. “I am warning you--and this will be your only warning--that if you persist down this path, I will ruin you.”

“I am already a fallen woman, Sir Eustace.”

“Do not be so unwise as to think you have nothing left to lose. This nice house, for instance, where you live thanks to the charity of your uncle. It would be a shame if anything were to happen to it.”

Emilia smiled cooly. “And I shall know who to blame if anything does.”

“You’re a stubborn woman, Miss Ricoletti,” he snapped. “Good night, madam.” He whirled on his heel and stormed out of the room. I could hear his footsteps marching away from us, down the hall. Eventually they faded.

Emilia sat watching the door Sir Eustace had just shut behind him. Her back was straight, but I could see from her profile that her face was very pale. Of course, she was always pale on account of her phthisis, but I thought perhaps she was also shaken. 

I watched her, holding my breath, and waited for her to call me from my hiding place.

After a few moments she said, “You may come out.”

I opened the door and rushed to Emilia’s side, pressing my hand to her forehead. She was burning with fever. 

“You are not well. He’s upset you.”

She brushed my hand aside. “Yes, of course he’s upset me. But I will not let that stop me.”

“You mean to keep assisting the match girls.”

“I do.”

I swallowed. “You have already done so much for them. No one will fault you if you stop now.”

“That’s where you are wrong. I would fault myself. To withdraw my aid after they’ve come to rely on it would be cruel.”

“And what if Sir Eustace makes good on his threats? Burns this place to the ground?”

“I am not afraid of Sir Eustace.”

“I am.”

“Darling.” She smiled at me, not unkindly. “You know I haven’t much time left.”

I knew. But I didn’t like to think about it.

“I’m not afraid of death. And Sir Eustace is a biting fly in comparison. The only thing I fear is being forgotten.”

I pressed my palm to her cheek. “I will never forget you.”

“I know.” She laid her own hand over mine. “You love me, and I’m honoured. But I want to be remembered for doing something important. If I help the match girls defeat Sir Eustace… then I will have done something good.”

“Yes, but Sir Eustace surely has enough money to weather a strike for some time. The match girls are already suffering, even with the help you’ve given them. I don’t think they can hold out much longer.”

“You are exactly right, love. Something must be done to keep the strike from dragging on, and quickly. Fortunately, I have a plan.”

I did not like the sound of this much at all. “What plan?”

“We both know I’m going to die before the year is out.”

“We do not know! You should travel to the seaside, expose yourself to fresh air.”

She shook her head, dismissing me. “What if I were to die in such a way that the blame would fall on Sir Eustace?”

My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I would offer to meet with him at his estate to discuss the terms under which I’d be willing to cease aiding the strikers, and that, while there, I would arrange to die in some way that Sir Eustace would be blamed.”

I was aghast. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

“But I am. I would perhaps drink poison, and leave the bottle in his kitchen.”

“Emilia, this is madness. What if you were caught?”

“I won’t be.”

“How can you be sure? What if you killed yourself and your plan were discovered and Sir Eustace were not blamed?”

“I’ve thought of that. And though I fear that outcome, I will die anyway, whether I try to pin the blame on Sir Eustace or not. And it will be an agonizing, bitter death and I dread it. And the worst part will be seeing you watch me die. I cannot do that to you.”

“Do not think of me. I am accustomed to death and dying, and I will care for you until the hour of your natural death without complaint.”

“I know. I know you would, love, but I cannot bear to think of you watching me cough blood into a basin.”

I knew what end awaited her, but the thought of her taking her own life still repulsed me. I was long past belief in sin, but I loved Emilia and could not bear the thought of losing her.

“Please,” I squeezed her fingertips. “I beg you, reconsider.”

“I will not. I am ill, not mad,” said Emilia. “I can see the path ahead quite clearly. This is what I want.”

Tears prickled behind my eyes.

“Oh, my love,” she said. “I am sorry to hurt you. Truly I am. But I want my death to have meaning. And I can only hope that in time you will forgive me. Or at least that you will understand.”

“I do _not_ understand. I know that you hate Sir Eustace and want to avenge yourself upon him--”

“I do. I won’t deny it, but it is more than that. I also want to do good. The most memorable deed of my life at present is causing a great scandal and bringing dishonour upon my family. I should like to be remembered for something other than that.”

I knew only the barest details of Emilia’s history with Sir Eustace. That when she was younger, she had been in love with him, and that he’d promised to marry her but had gone back on his word. That she’d been ruined. That her parents would not receive her. 

“You are more than your past, Emilia. I will remember you for your other deeds.”

“I know, love. I hope you will not be hurt when I say it is not enough. I want to do more, be more. But I can see you are upset. Let’s speak of this no more tonight.” She stood slowly and made her way to the bedroom, then turned back and reached towards me. 

“Come to bed?”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. I had no desire to keep arguing with her, but at the same time I was reluctant to leave off without convincing her. Still I stood up and walked to her, let her pull me into her arms.

She kissed me. I had read Koch. Phthisis was contagious. I did not care. If Emilia was going to die, I wanted to die with her. Her lips were soft and she was warm with fever. I wrapped my arms around her and began to loosen her hairpins from the dark curls piled high on her head. She broke the kiss and retreated to the bedroom, taking a seat before her toilet. I watched her in the mirror. She was so lovely, with pale skin and dark, selkie eyes. I stood behind her and helped her take her hair down. It was fine and soft. I freed each pin and set them in a stack next to the basin.

When I finished, I helped Emilia undress and change into her nightclothes. She kept a nightgown and cap for me in her wardrobe as well. The nightgown felt fussy to me. It had rows of lace at the bodice and neck. I preferred to sleep in a men’s nightshirt and cap. But wearing the nightgown was a small price to pay to sleep next to Emilia, and I changed into it, her eyes on me as I removed my frock. We curled around each other beneath the sheets, hands clasped together. Hers were cold.

“Don’t leave me,” I whispered into her neck.

“Shh,” she replied. “Go to sleep.”

But I could not. I lay with my eyes open, watching her face in the sulphur glow of the gas lamp outside the window. She stirred and moaned in her sleep, but did not wake. I laid a kiss on her damp forehead. And I resolved that whatever else happened, I would not let her die in vain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains some description of the dissection of a fetus, in the context of medical study. It also contains a somewhat graphic description of a case of Phossy Jaw.

In the morning, I woke very early, before even the servants stirred. I left a kiss on Emilia’s still-sleeping forehead and made my way back to my own room to begin my toilet. This was my favorite part of the day, because as I prepared to face the world I became increasingly myself. I began with a woman’s chemise, the plainest I could find, but necessary to keep sweat off my stays. I had made them myself, and their primary purpose was to give me a more masculine figure. They were far more comfortable than my early attempts to bind my chest with bandages. Over these I wore a men’s cotton union suit. Once this was on, my stays were hidden completely and one would never know my chest was not completely flat.

I periodically glanced at myself in the mirror as I put on socks, a shirt, braces, trousers. A waistcoat gave me a smoother figure still. To this I fastened the pocket watch which had been my father’s. I looked in the mirror. I still looked a boy. As a finishing touch, I dabbed a bit of spirit gum on my upper lip, and to it affixed a false moustache. This added years to my face and made me look more a man. I brushed my hair, which I kept a bit longer than was fashionable as a concession to Emilia, who liked to play with it. Finally I tied my necktie and put on a bowler hat. I felt ready to make my way to St Bartholomew’s. 

When I had enrolled at the medical college, I had intended to work as a family physician. However, as my studies progressed, I found myself nervous when attending patients. I was always afraid that they would discover my secret. The dead asked fewer questions than the living. And so I began my work as a pathologist, learning the ways illness manifested in the body.

I had thrown myself into my work and became, if not renowned, at least respected amongst my colleagues. St Bartholomew’s was a teaching hospital, and I obtained a position as a professor, teaching anatomy and pathology. I enjoyed my work. This morning, I especially looked forward to it, as it meant an escape from Emilia. I felt guilty for wanting that, but after last night’s talk of suicide and murder, I had little desire to see her lest it cause another row between us.

I was quite excited for the day’s lesson. I had obtained the corpse of a stillborn fetus--something of a rarity for anatomical study. When I arrived at the operating theater there was quite a large crowd awaiting, which I knew contained more students than were ordinarily present at my anatomy classes. I put on my apron to protect my clothing, removed my hat, and fixed my attention to the specimen laid out on my table. The fetus was female, at about six months of development, just under twelve inches long and two pounds. The veins were visible through the translucent graying skin. These veins were the subject of my interest, for I intended to model for my students the wonders of the circulatory system.

I had pre-soaked the specimen in ammonia to loosen the soft tissues. Using knives and brushes, I carefully removed the flesh, preserving the underlying structures most important for my lecture--the veins and arteries. I had on the table two Bunson burners heating small glass beakers of wax: one blue, one red. Using a syringe, I carefully sucked up the red-colored wax and injected it into the tiny arteries of the fetus, starting with the aorta and moving outward, following the path that blood would take when pushed from a beating heart.

Next, I injected the blue wax in the veins. Here I also started from the heart, moving backwards from the venae cavae to the smaller veins and vessels. The process was delicate, and took some hours, but rendered the entire circulatory system quite visible. As I worked, the young physicians looked on, took notes, sketched, and asked questions: the names of the major veins and arteries, how capillaries linked the arterioles and venules, the way the blood interacted with other humors.

Once I had finished my lecture, I transferred the specimen into a large jar filled with formaldehyde to preserve it, and brought it to St Bartholomew’s pathology museum for display. There it would be placed as part of the permanent collection. Overall, I was quite pleased with how the day had gone.

My good mood dissolved when I came home in the evening to discover a small crowd of girls and women in threadbare clothes, some with bandaged jaws that indicated they were almost certainly match girls, standing beside a large clarence in the alley behind Emilia’s house. I sidestepped the mob and entered the house via the servants’, doffing my hat as I made my way to the kitchen. Emilia and Mrs Davies, our cook, were counting out sacks of provisions: flour and potatoes, butter and sugar and cooking oil, while two young women I knew to be in their leadership looked on. My stomach churned. So Emilia had not been swayed.

Emilia smiled at me. “Good evening, Doctor Hooper.”

“Good evening, Miss Ricoletti.” This ruse was always painful for me. Pretending to be lodger and landlady before others weighed on me. But there was little that could be done.

“Doctor Hooper,” said Emilia, “would you be so kind as to help Miss Hawkins and Miss O’Brien carry these bags to the clarence outside?”

“Yes, of course.”

I found it difficult to look at Miss Hawkins. She had once been a great beauty, black Irish, with pale skin and dark hair and eyes. Now, she wore a shawl over her head and wrapped around her lower face, but I knew what horrors lay beneath it.

I helped her carry the burlap sacks of our stores out of the kitchen and to the waiting clarence. She and several other match girls followed, piling the sacks and then themselves inside. Miss Hawkins paid the driver, with money from Emilia’s purse, I was certain.

I watched them go. I did not want to row with Emilia again, and yet I felt it was inevitable. As I headed back to the kitchen, my heart weighed more than the goods I had carried to the clarence.

When I returned to the kitchen, Emilia was beaming and waving a magazine. I crossed the room to meet her at the table. “Look!” She pointed eagerly to the page.

**The Plight of London’s Unfortunate Match Girls.**

The article below explained the terrible working conditions at the match factory: the long hours and paltry wages, that the workers were being poisoned by white phosphorus, their very teeth and jaws eroding, their mouths glowing faintly blue in the dark.

I thought again of poor Miss Hawkins. Some weeks ago, Emilia had brought her to my rooms and asked me to examine her. An abscess in her cheek had eaten a hole in the flesh which made it possible to see where the necrosis of the bone had eroded her teeth and gums. I told her that there was no cure but to remove the lower mandible, that if she did not, the putrefaction would spread to her brain and kill her or drive her mad. But Miss Hawkins was afraid of such an extreme procedure--I could not blame her--and she lacked the money to pay a physician. Emilia had offered that I would perform the procedure--which I balked at, as I had not performed surgery on a living human in some years. But Miss Hawkins had declined, for which I was grateful.

I looked up at Emilia. “Did you write this?”

“Yes.” My apprehension must have shown on my face, for she added, “Under a pseudonym, of course.”

“The article is very well-written. But I confess I fear retaliation if word of it should reach Sir Eustace’s ears.” It was in a ladies’ magazine, but I still worried that Lady Carmichael might subscribe to the publication and mention it to her husband. He would certainly have no doubt as to the article’s origin.

“Oh, Doctor Hooper,” Emilia shook her head. “Don’t be such a hand wringer. Things with Sir Eustace must come to a head soon, and you know it. The article only hastens the inevitable.”

“A confrontation with Sir Eustace is not inevitable. If you--”

“What? Back down? Let him walk all over me?”

I sighed. I had meant to say ‘make your peace with him,’ but I knew she would interpret that in the same way. Defeat. Failure. And I knew that she would never back down. Emilia was used to getting her way. And I especially had never been able to deny her anything. I did not know if she would prevail over Sir Eustace. But I knew then I had to help her try.


	3. Chapter 3

That night, I was woken by Emilia leaning over me and stroking my face. She held a candlestick in her other hand.

“Emilia!” I was startled. It was not her custom to come to my room at night. Usually, if she wanted to make love, she would summon me to hers.

She pressed a finger to my lips. “Hush, darling.” She climbed into bed beside me, set the candle on the bedside table, and blew it out.

Our bodies found each other in the dark. I had been surprised by Emilia’s intrusion, but it was most welcome. I reached for her, arms encircling her warm--so warm--body and finding and loosening the ties of her dressing gown. She slid her hands beneath the cotton of my man’s nightshirt and up the length of my torso. We struggled together to undress one another, to wriggle out of layers of cotton and silk. I peeled her out of her dressing gown and flung it out from under the sheets onto the floor. She pulled my nightshirt over my head, freeing my nightcap in the process.

Our lips pressed together and then parted, and our tongues caressed one another. We breathed with one breath, our faces close together. My hand trailed down Emilia’s belly until I found the place between her thighs, which parted beneath my hand. The hair between her legs was sopping wet. I slipped two fingers into the hot core of her, making a beckoning motion with my hand, and she undulated beneath me.

“Oh, love,” she whispered. “Please.”

I swept my thumb in small circles over her clitoris as I thrust my fingers inside her. She moaned and pressed her hand over mine, urging me to apply more pressure. I knelt over her and kissed her mouth, her neck, the hollow between her clavicles, all the while stroking with my fingers. I kissed down the length of her body, pausing to pay attention to each of her nipples, sucking and nipping, before removing my thumb and replacing it with my mouth.

A muffled cry rang out as Emilia stifled a moan with her hand. I was encouraged, and licked her with broad, flat strokes as I crooked my fingers. She dropped her hands to my hair and held me as I lapped her, tasting the rich, briny and acid notes of her sex. She moved rhythmically beneath me, hips rocking in time with the motions of my hands and mouth. 

Wetness slicked my own thighs, but I ignored it, focusing on Emilia’s pleasure. This did not go unrewarded. She grasped my hair tightly and ground hard against my mouth, and so reached her peak with a sob, tightening around my fingers. I extracted them carefully from inside her and kissed her mons, then climbed up the length of her body to kiss her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Shhh, there’s nothing to thank me for. Your pleasure is mine.”

I could feel her lips forming a smile against mine in the dark. For a few moments, we simply lay together, the residual pleasure washing over us both.

Emilia broke the silence. “I know you’re angry with me for helping the match girls.”

“I’m not.” I hated how petty I sounded, because truthfully I wasn’t. I was frightened for her safety and grieved at the thought of her imminent passing, but not angry. 

“You promise?”

“I could never be angry with you”

“And you will not stop me?”

I took a deep breath. It was one thing to quietly reach a decision in my own mind, and another to voice my conviction out loud. “More than that. I will help you. I can see that you will not be dissuaded, and I do not wish you to fail. If you’re going to spend your life avenging yourself on Sir Eustace, at least do the thing right.”

Emilia reached across my bed and fumbled in my nightstand until she found a matchstick. She struck it and lit the candle she’d brought with her. The light cast eerie shadows over the hollows of her face. “Speak plainly. For weeks now, you’ve objected to me assisting the match girls. You were aghast when I told you of my plans regarding Sir Eustace. What has changed your mind?”

I thought about it for a long moment, because I was not certain myself. “The light in your eyes when you showed me the article you wrote about the match girls. I have known for a while now that this is important to you, that it gives you purpose. But I didn’t see until you handed me the article this… fierce joy that you are deriving from working against Sir Eustace. Happiness is so rare in this world. I do not want to deny you one of the few sources of pleasure left to you.” Also it had increasingly occured to me that we had precious little time left together, and I didn’t want to spend it at odds with each other. Already it pained me to think of the time wasted arguing. I promised myself that from here on, I would aid her in whatever endeavor, or at the very least not stand in her way.

“And what would you do?” she asked. “How would you, in your words, ‘do the thing right?”

My heart began to beat more rapidly. I would actually have to do this thing to which I had agreed. “I’m not sure. But I think this idea of drinking poison in his house and leaving the bottle in his kitchens is a poor one. For one thing, you’d have no access to his kitchen.”

Emilia shrugged a pale shoulder. “I’m not wedded to it. It was the first thought that came to me, is all.”

“I do think that your idea to draw him close to you by offering to meet to resolve the strike is a good one.”

“You think he will agree?”

“Yes. He’s eager to bring an end to the trouble, and if you suggest to him that you are amenable to a meeting, he will take the opportunity.”

“And how should I die? How should the blame for my death be placed at his feet?” There was that fierce joy in her face again, only now that we were discussing murder, it disconcerted me to see it.

“I think,” I said slowly, “That first you must get it established in the public mind that he wants to kill you.”

“How?”

“Those threats he made the other night. Do you think he could be driven to repeat them?”

“Perhaps. Darling, what are you thinking?”

“I propose you arrange to meet him, but not at his estate. Somewhere public. Perhaps the match factory. Bring witnesses. The match girls, Sir Eustace’s attorney. And see if you can provoke him into some public display of those sentiments which he expressed in private. Press him. Mock him. Goad him.”

“Make him angry.”

My heart clenched. “Yes. Make him angry, and make him desperate. And Emilia,” I clasped her hand, desperate for her to heed me, “if there’s any chance that he can be persuaded into concessions which are agreeable to the strikers, promise me you will take it. There’s no need for either of you to die if the strike can be resolved by peaceful means. If you win, the victory will be your legacy.”

She sighed. “I know. I have thought on this. And trust me, if Sir Eustace sees reason, I will stay my hand. But I cannot imagine him doing so. I know him. He is stubborn. And he hates me. He will not concede.”

“I suspect you are right. But you must at least try to negotiate with him in good faith. Promise me.”

Emilia kissed my fingers. “I promise.”

“There is something else I would have you do, which might be painful for you.”

She tensed. “What?”

“I know little of your past with Sir Eustace. I know he wronged you, and that is all.”

“You want me to tell you the story?”

“I want you to publish the story. Like you did the article about the match girls.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“But I am. We need to make it clear that Sir Eustace has more than one motive for murder.”

“You would drag my name through the mud. The entire point of this whole venture with the match girls was to be remembered for something other than my disgrace!”

“And you will be! The match girls and the public will celebrate you as a hero. And I do not think, if you publish the truth in the papers, that people will think of you so badly as you suspect. You were young and innocent. Sir Eustace was a blackguard who seduced and ruined you. It will show the public what a villain he is, and further convince them that he wanted you dead.”

Her lips formed a little moue of distaste. “I do not like this plan at all.”

“I know. Truthfully I don’t like it either. But now is not the time to think of your pride. Pretend that you are someone else, looking at this story from the outside. Think of how it will come across--an innocent girl, tragically wronged, up against an absolute demon of a robber baron who hurt her once before. Such a demon of course wanted to silence her forever.

Emilia sighed.

“You know that I am right. Surely you have a friend who can write this story for the society papers? Perhaps that will be easier, if you don’t have to write it yourself.”

“I do have such a confidant. Meena Harvey. She’s a childhood friend, who knew of my relationship with Sir Eustace when it was unfolding.”

“Ask her to write the story, then. And let’s see it published around the time of your meeting with Sir Eustace.”

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

I kissed her forehead. “Thank you. I know it will not be easy.”

“Thank _you_.” After a few moments she added, “I never thought you would help me.”

This sickened me. That she would think I would abandon her. I cradled her head in my hands and looked into her eyes, pupils blown black in the darkness. “I’m sorry that I ever left you in doubt.”

“I never doubted your love for me. Only your support for my venture.”

I released her head, stroking her hair as I did so. “Well, you have my support now.”

“Thank you, my darling. You’ve no idea what it means to me.”

I took her hand and caressed it. “Oh, Emilia.” Grief welled inside me, and tears prickled my eyes. “It will break my heart to lose you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know it will and I’m sorry. But you will find someone else to love in time.”

“No!” I shook my head. “No, never.”

“Hush,” she said. “You will.”

I did not wish to argue further so did not reply. Instead I held her hand and lay in the dark, tears streaming silently from my eyes. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains scenes of protesting and police violence. Given everything that's been going on in the US, I thought that merited a warning. I also wanted to take this time to say that Black Lives Matter, and that without justice there can be no peace.

“I still don’t see why you need to be there,” said Emilia. We were seated together on a sofa in her parlor, waiting for the hansom to collect us and take us to the match factory.

“I need to see Sir Eustace.” I was cooler with her than was my wont, but I wanted to make it clear to her I would not back down. “To study him.”

Emilia pursed her lips. “And if word of you helping the strikers should make its way back to your colleagues at St Bartholomew’s?”

“My colleagues are all doctors and professors. They don’t run in the same circles as landed gentry like Sir Eustace. And if they should hear of it, I will tell them that I am concerned as a physician. The health of those poor girls is appalling.”

“They may suspect your involvement with me.”

“Does that upset you?” 

She sighed. “I am resigned to being known as a fallen woman.”

“Oh, Emilia.” I kissed her cheek. “You are not a fallen woman. You are a free spirit, that is all. And one I’m honored to know.”

She brushed me away. “You know I don’t like it when you kiss me with that moustache. It tickles.”

It hurt that Emilia didn’t like me to be affectionate with her when I felt most myself. But I understood that Sir Eustace was to blame. After what he’d done to her, Emilia had sworn she would never again give her heart to a man. And so she couldn’t bear to see me as one.

“Come, now, I think I hear the cab.” I stood up and walked toward the window. There was indeed a hansom in the street. “Let’s go and meet with Sir Eustace.”

* * *

The match factory was an eerie place. Phosphorus dust filled the air and coated every surface, giving the whole place a subtle blue-green glow. Sunlight shone through the windows on the observation deck above the factory floor, but the lower levels, where the workers would be if they weren’t on strike, were shadowed by the observation deck. We crossed the big open space, a great hall filled with workbenches for the match girls, and entered the foreman’s office. Cartons of matches stood stacked at intervals across the factory floor. At the far end were the drying ovens, which were idle and stood dark, like great empty eyes.

The meeting took place upstairs, in the foreman’s office. There was a large table in the center of the room, lit by windows on the eastern side of the office. Through these we could see the crowd gathered outside. Men from the London Trades Council had joined the remaining match girls. They chanted, and waved signs.

Sir Eustace sat at the head of the table, with his attorney, Mr Vear, at his right hand, and the foreman, Mr Nisbit, on his left.

“I can agree to a pay increase of one farthing per hundred completed frames,” said Sir Eustace. “No more.” His well-dressed and well-shod lackeys who sat at his side of the table nodded agreement.

“That is nothing!” protested Miss O’Brien, who sat across from Sir Eustace at the foot of the table. “We want a tuppence per hundred for the frame fillers, and a thripenny for the packers.”

Sir Eustace laughed aloud. It was an ugly sound. “And this idea of ‘dining room’ is absurd,” he snapped.

Miss Hawkins, who was seated next to Miss O’Brien, pulled back her scarf to show her abscessed face. “This is what comes from having no space to eat but our workbenches. We’re eating the phosphorus dust. And it eats us.”

“I will not build an addition to my factory which serves no manufacturing purpose!” Sir Eustace bellowed.

The negotiations went on for some time The workers wanted an increase in wages, a decrease in the number of types of infractions for which workers could be fined, and the addition to the factory of a dedicated space for them to eat which was not at their workbenches. Sir Eustace wanted them to return to work immediately and offered the most paltry concessions. Neither side was willing to compromise, and they argued at great length.

“How can you fine the girls for having dirty feet?” said Miss Hawkins. “Many of them are too poor to afford shoes, and the factory floors are filthy.”

“They should wipe their feet with rags,” said Sir Eustace.

Miss O’Brien’s expression soured. “Public opinion will turn against you,” She drew several folded pages from a folio. “Look at this article in _The Ladies’ Home Magazine._ ” She slid it across the table to Sir Eustace.

I was aghast. Here I had been afraid that Sir Eustace would stumble upon the article, and now O’Brien was placing it under his nose. But I had told Emilia to make him angry, and this, apparently, was how she had seen fit to do that.

I watched as he read the article. His face grew increasingly red. “This is libel,” he barked. “You!” He thrust a stubby finger at Emilia. “You are the source of this pack of lies! And you don’t even work here! What do you know of the ‘plight of London’s unfortunate match girls?’ I’m an honest businessman. I pay as well as any other factory in London does for unskilled work to female workers. And you make me out to be some monster poisoning children!”

“That’s exactly what you are, Sir Eustace.” Emilia spoke for the first time. She’d been sitting silently next to Miss Hawkins. “Fully a third of your workers are between fourteen and sixteen. And they’re being poisoned by the white phosphorus. You could easily use red phosphorus instead, and spare them from much suffering and even loss of life.”

“I am providing girls from poor families who might otherwise turn to disreputable living with an honest wage,” said Sir Eustace. “And red phosphorus is three times the price of white. I cannot sell a red phosphorus match for the price the public is willing to pay and turn a profit.”

“And that is why you are a monster,” Emilia pointed to the illustration in the article of a woman with Phossy Jaw, a ghastly image of a woman with her cheeks eroded back to expose decaying teeth and gums. “You place your own profit above the lives of your workers.”

“Enough!” He stood up from the table. “I’m sick of your meddling. I’m warning you to stop this at once!”

“Or you will do what?” Emilia raised her chin.

I held my breath.

Sir Eustace flushed. “Or you will regret it! You will regret the day you crossed me. You will regret the day you were born!”

An awkward silence came over the table. Mr Vear grabbed at Sir Eustace’s elbow and tried to get him to sit down. Sir Eustace shook him off. He remained quite red of face, and his fist was clenched in the air. Then he slowly opened his hand and sat down.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the men surrounding him. “I see no point in continuing this farce of a negotiation.” He addressed Miss Hawkins and Miss O’Brien. “This meeting is over. Take your fellow instigators and get off my property at once.”

“As you wish,” said Miss O’Brien.

“And be grateful I don’t sack you all!” He added. “And you.” He turned to Emilia. “You are not welcome here anymore.” He turned back to Miss Hawkins. “There will be no further negotiations if she is present. Is that understood.”

“You’ve made yourself quite clear,” said Miss Hawkins.

It was Emilia’s turn to go red. Spots of color appeared on her cheeks. But she said nothing.

“Good afternoon, all of you,” said Sir Eustace. “Now get out.”

All of us stood and gathered our things. We made our way across the observation deck, down the stairs, and onto the factory floor. A couple of the younger girls looked at the workbenches with what looked like longing. Some of them, I knew, were eager to return to work. Emilia was giving them money and food, but it wasn’t nearly enough to replace all their lost wages. The defeated match girls and Emilia and I followed Sir Eustace and his entourage, walking single-file down the dusty aisle between the workbenches. Sir Eustace unlocked the factory doors, and two of his lackey’s pushed them open.

Sunlight and noise poured through the open doors. Shouting and chanting from the strikers and the Trades Councilmen hit us along with the bright summer light. The protestors stood shoulder to shoulder, chanting and holding signs: “No more Fines!”

“Mr Nisbit should resign!”

They pushed all the way up to the doors of the factory, where Sir Eustace’s hired thugs stood holding wooden clubs. As the crowd advanced, the thugs pushed them back, swinging their clubs at the demonstrators who used their signs as shields. There were police on the streets as well, who I suspected were in Sir Eustace’s pocket. In any case, they did nothing to intervene when Sir Eustace’s men attacked the protestors.

When Sir Eustace and his entourage stepped out of the factory, we hung back in the doorway. The crowd surged forward. The men with clubs beat them back, trying to clear a path for Sir Eustace and his men to reach their carriages, which were waiting along the street. Some of the crowd pushed towards the carriages, grabbing for the horses’ reins and trying to pull the doors open. The footmen began to shout and push back against the crowd. The police also intervened, pushing the protestors away from the carriages.

Sir Eustace drew a revolver and pointed it at the protestors. “Back!” he shouted. “Back, I say!”

Some of the protestors did retreat. Others ignored him and continued to grab the horses and climb on the carriages, which shook and rocked beneath them. The footmen fought them back, but as they pushed men off more came to take their places. Sir Eustace fired a warning shot in the air. Then the crowd did fall back, and Sir Eustace and his lackeys did push through, swinging their clubs as they went. The coachmen cracked their whips. The carriages, now released, moved forward into the crowds, who parted to avoid being run down.

After the carriages left, the Trades Councilmen and onlookers mostly dispersed, leaving the streets relatively empty except for the match girls. They came and talked to Miss Hawkins and Miss O’Brien, who described the negotiations and admitted their failure to come to an agreement. There were mutterings of displeasure.

“I’m sorry,” said Miss Hawkins, “that we weren’t able to settle with him. But Sir Eustace offered us nothing.”

“We need to go back to work,” said one woman. “Our children are hungry,” added another.

“I can offer more food,” said Emilia. “Please, don’t lose heart.”

“Sir Eustace is desperate,” said Miss O’Brien. “It is clear that the strike is wearing on him. We have only to hold on a little while longer.”

“Solidarity,” someone shouted.

“Solidarity!” several more people shouted in reply.

A low cheer went through what was left of the crowd, and there were fierce smiles on the tired faces of the match girls. It thrilled me to see it.

But at length, the match girls also gathered their signs and headed for home. Emilia stayed to the end, and bid farewell to Miss Hawkins and Miss O’Brien, with promises of more money and food.

Emilia and I summoned a hansom and made our way back to her house. As the carriage jostled over the cobblestone streets, I thought again of Sir Eustace waving his gun in the air. And finally, I began to formulate a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone. This is a super angsty chapter. Bring your tissues!

“So,” ventured Emilia. “Tell me this plan of yours.”

We were sitting in her rooms. I was once again clad in a frock. I hated it, but I longed to please Emilia. I knew she was not long for this world, and if what she most desired was to see me attired as a woman, then I would do it.

“Sir Eustace has left London and returned to his estate in Kent. I need you to write to him. Tell him that you would like to meet him for supper at the estate. He’ll send his carriage to meet you at the railway station. I will make my way to the house on foot.”

“And?” said Emilia, breathless.

“Your task will be to draw the negotiations out as long as possible. Negotiate not for the match girls, but yourself. Ask him for a stipend, an annuity, something given in exchange for you to stop helping the strikers. Make sure the conversation goes late into the night.”

“And?”

“Lady Carmichael will invite you to stay over.”

Emilia’s lips twisted into a small moue. “But she detests me.”

“Perhaps, but she is a consummate lady. She won’t want to send you home so late.”

“Alright. Assume Lady Carmichael asks me to stay? What then?”

My heartbeat was pounding in my ears. My eyes were brimming. This was the part of the plan which I hated. I took her hands in mine, and I told it to her.

* * *

I accompanied Emilia by rail from Charing Cross to Bexleyheath. I wore my usual masculine attire, for ease of travel. From there, I stood on the platform and surreptitiously watched Sir Eustace’s carriage arrive and his footmen transfer Emilia aboard. I watched until the carriage disappeared from view. Emilia would make no return journey. I knew the cold fact of that, and yet it did not seem real. Dusk was fast approaching, and the autumn air whipped around me. Emilia would arrive in time for supper. She’d insisted on packing me a sandwich so that I could eat as well, but I knew that it would either sit like lead in my belly or else come back up again, and gave it to a hungry-looking boy at the railway station. Then I started the walk towards Rucastle Hall.

It took me no more than half an hour to arrive at the place, and would have taken less had I not been so determined to travel unseen. I made a careful look around the grounds. Emilia had told me the best place to hide would be the topiary maze in the garden. It was quite large, tall enough that one couldn’t see over it, and shaped in a circular labyrinth. Squirrels and birds scattered as I walked the path. I wandered near the middle of the maze and settled myself in one of the blind ends. I sat with my back to the hedgerow, and drew from my satchel the plans Emilia had drawn up of the house, to the best of her memory.

The ground floor of the house was dominated by the front hall, dining room, parlour, drawing room, and Sir Eustace’s study and library, with the kitchen and pantries off to one side. The first floor held the bedrooms. Sir Eustace’s bedroom and Lady Carmichael’s bedroom were above the library and study, separated by a corridor. A balcony connected these bedrooms with the three stateliest of the bedrooms, all which had a view overlooking the courtyard. This was where I insisted we place Emilia.

“There is no way,” she had said, “that Lady Carmichael will place me as a guest of honor, and especially not in a room a terrace away from her husband’s bed!”

“Demand it,” I told her. “As part of your condition for withdrawing support of the match girls. Tell him that Lady Carmichael will not disgrace you by putting you in one of the smaller rooms by the nursery suite. Do what you must, but make sure you stay in one of those rooms. And place a candle in the window when you have gone to bed, so I know which one you are in.”

All the windows of these rooms were dark. But that was, for the moment, according to plan. I had not seen any movement from the carriage house, so I assumed she was still inside. At this hour, they would still be in the dining room having supper. I did not plan to enter the house until late into the night, after all the servants had gone to bed. I could not enter during the daytime on some pretext, pretending to be, say, a deliveryman or plumber. Questions would be asked later, and any stranger seen on the grounds would instantly become suspect. Therefore, my hope was to wait until dark.

My back was stiff, and the damp of the lawn was beginning to soak through my trousers. I stood up and moved about the maze for a bit, but the last thing I wanted was to attract the attention of the gardener or groundskeepers. So I lay low for several more hours. I spent the time thinking of Emilia. I had met her when I first came to live in her house, as a lodger. I knew nothing of her, only that a colleague had mentioned that her rates were fair and she was kind. I had been living there perhaps six months and had come into her office to pay my monthly rent. She had looked at me, really looked at me, and said, “You’re a woman, aren’t you.” I had been terrified, heart in my throat. “Don’t worry,” she had said. “I think you’re a handsome woman. And I’ll never tell.”

I had meant to give my notice and move out that very day. But Emilia’s smile, when she’d called me handsome, had made me hesitate. Even though it was dangerous to stay under a roof with someone who knew my secret, I stayed. And she became more familiar with me, offering small touches and smiles. I returned them, cautiously. And we began a slow, circling courtship of almost a year before she placed a chaste kiss to my lips and said, “Please take off that dreadful moustache.” And I did.

And now, I sat inside Sir Eustace’s garden, waiting to commit a murder. When I left this place, my hands would never again be clean. I felt sick with nausea, and regretted giving away my sandwich. My stomach ached. This was Emilia’s scheme, I reminded myself. It had been her plan to die and implicate Sir Eustace. I was only assisting to make sure the thing was executed properly. I would not fail her. I checked the time on my pocket watch. It was past ten o’clock. But there were still lights in the servants quarters, kitchen, and pantry and butler’s pantry. So I waited until all went out, save one--the light in the largest of the three bedrooms, atop the dining room. Then I made my way across the lawn underneath it.

I held up a small mirror and reflected light back up to the window. Emilia opened it. I threw up a coil of rope tied with a monkey’s fist knot at the end. It took three tries, and we made not a small amount of noise, but I was able to throw the rope up to her window on the first floor. Emilia secured it to her bedpost, and I climbed up quickly.

“Oh, my darling,” said Emilia, pulling me into her arms. “It is good to see you. I’m so frightened. I’ve been sitting here, just fretting and fretting--”

“Shhhh,” I said, and kissed her forehead. The first thing we did was to extinguish the candle and sit quietly on the bed, to see if anyone would take notice of the racket we’d made getting me into her window. We waited a good fifteen minutes, but as it seemed no one had noticed or would come, we proceeded with the next phase of the plan. 

We made our way through the darkened house, lit only by moonlight, to Sir Eustace’s study. This was the part of the plan of which I was most uncertain. I had acquired some burglar’s tools and spent the week practicing picking locks of different shapes and sizes. But I did not know what kind of lock would be at the door of the study, nor how formidable it would be. I took out a leather roll of picks from my satchel and set to work.

It was then that Emilia tapped me on the shoulder with a smug smile and produced from her pocket a ring with a key.

“Cor! Where did you come by this?” I asked her.

“Tonight, after supper, Sir Eustace brought me to his study for further negotiations. I used my wiles to secure a place in his lap, and from there picked his pocket.”

I shook my head, astounded. “What if he had caught you! Everything then would have been lost.”

Emilia pouted. “But he did not catch me. And what if you could not pick the lock, or if it looked tampered with and the police would know someone broke in? No,” she said, “I did right.”

There was no sense arguing about it now in any case.

Emilia inserted the key into the lock and gave it a turn. The door opened silently.

We entered the study, which was lit by moonglow coming in from the windows. Still, the place was shrouded in shadow, and I could not tell what many of the dark shapes in the office were.

“There,” whispered Emilia. “I saw them earlier tonight.” She pointed to a curio cabinet against the far wall.

I opened it and retrieved the rectangular wooden box. The box was also locked. I took my roll of picks and found a small one, inserted it into the lock. It did not turn. My heart pounded in my ears at the thought that it wouldn’t open and all would be lost. However, I kept my nerve, and with the assistance of a second pick, opened the lock easily enough. Inside the box, encased in green velvet, was a brace of dueling pistols, complete with cleaning and loading supplies and a small round box for each which contained ammunition. I had brought my own powder.

Emilia lifted one of the pistols from the box. “So this is my fate.”

I sat back on my haunches.

“Emilia. Love. One word from you and I will end this. I will go sleep in the field, and you will sleep in your bed, and we will take the first train back to London on the morrow.”

“No,” said Emilia. “We made no deal tonight. I had no better luck bargaining with him on my own than the match girls did, not even near the end when I debased myself. No, there is no way forward but this.”

I took the lead shot from the box and carefully loaded the weapon through the muzzle. I was not the sort of man given to hunting, or to dueling, but I did own a pistol and knew how to handle one. Then I closed the box and put the other pistol away. Emilia and I walked hand in hand back to her bedroom. I was in awe of her courage. I scarcely dared to breathe, so afraid was I of waking someone in the house. But Emilia walked with her back straight and her stride unbroken, white nightgown trailing behind her in the moonlight.

We arrived back at the guest bedroom. Emilia looked at me, her eyes large and dark.

“I suppose this is goodbye, my love.”

I swallowed back tears.

“Shhh,” she said, “none of that.”

“I love you,” I told her. “I will never be whole again, without you.”

“Hush, you will be fine. You must be fine, for me.”

I nodded. The tears flowed freely, now.

“Do not forget me.”

“Never. I couldn’t.”

“Make everyone remember me.”

“Of course. They will all remember you as a hero. A warrior who died in the cause of justice.”

She smiled. Her eyes were glistening.

I took her into my arms. It was strange to be holding her and the pistol together. She kissed me. I returned the kiss fervently, knowing it would be the last we would ever share. And I swore I would never forget that last kiss, the last time I held the brave, strong Emilia Ricoletti in my arms.

Finally, she broke our embrace. She climbed into bed, and crawled under the covers, pulling the silk sheets up to her chin.

“Aim true.”

I knelt at the foot of the bed, placing my left hand on her leg. I took careful aim with the pistol with my right, pointing the muzzle at her heart.

“I love you,” she told me. “Quickly now. No tears.”

Grief welled in me. Despite her admonishment, tears flowed freely down my cheeks, and my heart beat near to bursting. I’m ashamed to say, I closed my eyes as I pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out in the night. My head felt like a struck gong. I lowered the gun slowly.

Emilia’s eyes met mine. Blood flowed down her nightgown, dark blue in the moonlight. Every instinct told me to go to her, to stanch the bleeding.

“Run,” she coughed, blood spilling from her lips.

I nodded. I could already see a light from Sir Eustace’s room, across the balcony. I grabbed the rope from the bedpost and rolled it into a coil. I jumped out the window, landing hard, and rolled forward to lessen the impact. Still, it hurt. I didn’t think anything was broken though, so I ran.

I ran across the grounds, back through the topiary maze. I hastily wiped down the dueling pistol with a handkerchief, on the off chance anyone would check for fingerprints, and then threw it into one of the hedges. Hopefully, even the local constabulary would think to look for it here. This was a key part of our plan, on which everything hinged.

Emilia! I thought of her with every step. She’d wanted to avoid dying in a bed of blood, and yet that was how she’d gone, in the end. I ran and ran, still crying, lungs bursting, side splitting. I ran all the way to the station.

There I collapsed to my hands and knees. The muscles of my legs were twitching, and I had a horrendous side stitch. I retched, spittle dripping down my chin. Emilia, Emilia, my beloved Emilia. Dead at my hand. Now, I had to ensure she would live forever.


	6. Chapter 6

From Bexleyheath, I walked along the train tracks in the direction of London. I arrived at the city some hours later, bone weary and famished, as dawn was tinting the sky a rosy gray. I hailed a hansom cab and made my way back to Emilia’s. The servants were starting to go about their duties, and I was careful to avoid them as I made my way to my rooms and then fell into bed.

The next day was perhaps the worst of my life. I rose after sleeping a few scant hours and went into work. I spent the entire day in a fog, and do not remember anything that I said or did. I suppose my students must have found me a disappointing lecturer. Visions of Emilia, blue blood spilling down her white nightgown, flashed before my eyes. My stomach heaved. I sweated through my stays and shirt. A colleague remarked that I looked unwell and suggested I return home after luncheon. I did so and immediately retired to my rooms. There, I curled myself around a pillow and wept.

I rose early the next morning and went out to buy every newspaper I could get my hands on.

_The Star: Murder in Kent!_

_Yesterday, Emilia Ricoletti, aged 32, lately living in Clapham, was found murdered in her bed at Rucastle Hall, the home of Sir Eustace Carmichael and Lady Carmichael, in Bexleyheath, Kent. Miss Ricoletti was a guest of the Carmichaels, and was found by Sir Eustace at approximately two o’clock in the morning._

_Police Constable MacPherson took Sir Eustace’s witness statement. He reports that Miss Ricoletti was visiting the Carmichaels. After the family had gone to sleep, he was awakened by the sound of a gunshot. He says that he ran across the terrace to Miss Ricoletti’s room and found her shot through the heart. He sent for the police immediately._

_Sir Eustace claims that an intruder came through Miss Ricoletti’s bedroom window and shot her. The window was found open._

_The matter is currently in the capable hands of Inspector Altheny Jones._

I harrumphed at this. I was surprised that Sir Eustace had not been arrested. But his rank protected him, I supposed. Once the weapon was discovered, however, I knew his fate would be sealed.

I was heartened, however, by the articles in _The Ladies’ Home Magazine_ :

_Justice for Emilia Ricoletti!_

_Miss Emilia Ricoletti, daughter of Peter and Maude Ricoletti, was found murdered yesterday morning at the home of Sir Eustace Carmichael. As we have previously reported, Miss Ricoletti was giving aid to the striking workers at Sir Eustace’s East London factory. A Miss Janine Hawkins reported that at the meeting at the factory several weeks ago, Sir Eustace threatened Miss Ricoletti, saying, “You will regret the day you crossed me. You will regret the day you were born!” He also drew a revolver and waved it at the protestors outside his factory when departing the negotiations. After this, after Miss Ricoletti is found shot to death at his home, how has he not been arrested?_

_We at_ The Ladies’ Home Magazine _demand justice for Emilia Ricoletti._

_The Tragic Past of Sir Eustace Carmichael and Miss Emilia Ricoletti, by Meena Harvey:_

_As_ The Ladies’ Home Magazine _and many other periodicals and newspapers have reported, Miss Emilia Ricoletti was murdered in her bed at Rucastle Hall, home of Sir Eustace and Lady Carmichael. While Sir Eustace and and Miss Ricoletti were lately at odds with one another over the strike at Sir Eustace’s match factory, they were, at one point in history, more amicably acquainted._

_They met on holiday in Bristol, where both had traveled to see the camera obscura. Miss Ricoletti was barely eighteen at the time, chaperoned by her aunt, Huldah Ricoletti, who was somewhat lax in providing supervision. Carmichael, more than twenty years her senior, took advantage of the young Miss Ricoletti’s naïveté and romantic nature, and led her to believe that he was in love with her and that they would be married at his father’s estate. Ignorant of his base intentions, she traveled with him to Rucastle Hall, where they remained together for some weeks until the arrival of the elder Lord Carmichael. He explained to Miss Ricoletti in no uncertain terms that there could never be a union between herself and his son. The young Miss Ricoletti was heartbroken. Worse, because they had lived together for some time unchaperoned, her reputation was ruined. Her parents refused to receive her. Her uncle, Irwin Ricoletti, perhaps feeling culpable for his wife’s failure to prevent the debacle, took her in. She lived with him for some years before he set up a household for her in London._

_Decades later, their paths crossed again, when Emilia aided the striking workers at Sir Eustace’s match factory. And once again, the blackguard appealed to her trusting nature, inviting her to his home on the pretext of negotiating a resolution to the strike. Once she was there and no resolution could be reached, he murdered her and staged a robbery. He must be hanged for his crimes! Join us in petitioning Inspector Altheny Jones to arrest him at once!_

I had not known more than the barest details of the history between Sir Eustace and Emilia. Reading what he’d done to her, I desperately wished that I had shot him instead of Emilia. It would have been worth a hanging to see him dead. But the past could not be undone, and the fact was that I had shot Emilia, not Sir Eustace. But with a little bit of time and luck, I hoped he would yet pay for what he had done.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you folks so kindly for sticking with this story. I've had a hard couple of months at work, a very busy holiday season. Now things are back to normal and I hope to start regularly posting again.

After I had devoured all the morning papers, not even bothering to sit down, but reading them standing right there at the newsstands, I returned home. Mrs Turner, the housekeeper, answered the door. Her eyes were red from crying.

“Doctor Hooper--” she glanced at my armload of papers-- “I take it you have read the news?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “Come in. The place is in an uproar. All the tenants and servants have read every account of Miss Ricoletti’s death, each more sensational than the last. What a way to learn of such a thing.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Forgive me, but when I answered the door, I had hoped you were Mr Ricoletti. He’s been sent for, but has not yet arrived.” She was referring to Mr Irwin Ricoletti, Emilia’s uncle, who still owned the house, and who I imagined would at some point come and set things in order. Until then, without Emilia’s firm but gentle hand to guide it, the household would quickly fall into chaos.

“Have you broken your fast?” she asked.

“No,” I admitted.

“I’m afraid there’s no formal breakfast this morning. But I’m sure Mrs Davies can provide something.”

I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs Davies, the cook, was sobbing openly at the table. Beside her sat Beryl, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. I felt that I should cry as well, but I was numb. I set the papers down on the table and placed my hand upon Mrs Davies’ shoulder. She reached out and grabbed it with her calloused fingers.

“Murdered!” she cried. “Such a horrible thing to happen to such a good woman.”

I wondered what would become of us as a household. There were four of us tenants, and several servants besides Mrs Turner, Beryl, and Mrs Davies. I did not know if Mr Ricoletti would keep us on, or else sell the place. In either case, I would need to find new lodgings. I could not bear to stay in this house, where every stick of furniture held her memory.

I found a loaf of bread and cut myself a slice and buttered it. It tasted of ashes. I forced myself to chew it down anyway, as I had eaten precious little yesterday and nothing today.

After I’d eaten, I made my way back up the stairs towards my own room, only to encounter Mrs Turner again. “Doctor Hooper,” she said. “There’s a gentleman just arrived who says he has business with Mr Ricoletti. I’ve told him that Mr Ricoletti is not yet here, and he said he would wait. He’s in the parlor.”

I frowned. “Does this gentleman have a name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

I had been expecting Inspector Altheny Jones. I had never heard of a Sherlock Holmes, and it was a singular enough name that I was sure I could not have forgotten it. “Take me to see him.”

Mrs Turner hesitated. “Are you sure we should not wait for Mr Ricoletti?” “He will not be here until afternoon at the earliest, and we should not leave this gentleman waiting for hours.” Truthfully, I was curious as to who he was and what his business might be.

Mrs Turner nodded and led me into the parlor, where he stood looking out the window, hands clasped behind him. My first impression was that he was tall. He turned around when I came into the room, and looked me up and down.

“You are not Mister Ricoletti,” he said.

“No. I am Doctor Hooper.” I extended my hand to him. 

He took it and shook it. His handshake was brief, but firm. “Tell me, Doctor Hooper. What is your connection to the late Miss Ricoletti?”

“I am her tenant.” 

He nodded. “Miss Ricoletti had four tenants, so I’m given to understand.”

“Yes.”

“I should like to speak with all of you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “To what purpose?”

“I’ve been engaged by Lady Carmichael to investigate the murder of Miss Ricoletti.”

This was most unexpected and unwelcome. I had hoped I would only have to deal with Altheny Jones, who seemed less than formidable. “The papers say that Inspector Altheny Jones is investigating the case.”

Holmes snorted. “The man is as useless as he is foolish. I’m a private detective, and I’ve been hired by Lady Carmichael to clear her husband’s name.”

I nearly choked. “Clear? The man is guilty.”

His brow furrowed. “What makes you say so. The papers?”

“No.” Here I took the opportunity to implicate Sir Eustace. “Last week, Miss Ricoletti accompanied several striking workers to the match factory to negotiate with Sir Eustace. I was among them, prepared, in my capacity as a medical man, to testify that the working conditions have terribly impacted these workers’ health. While I was there, he threatened Miss Ricoletti. Now, she has been murdered in his home. What other explanation can there be than that he killed her?”

“Lady Carmichael has explained to me that Miss Ricoletti was a woman of loose morals and unsavory character who tried unsuccessfully to secure Sir Eustace.” He smirked as he said it, watching me to assess my reaction.

My blood was near to boiling. I longed to defend Emilia’s honour, but worried that to do so would invite speculation as to the nature of my relationship with her. I forced myself to breathe deeply through my nose as Holmes continued.

“After his father prevented the disastrous match, Miss Ricoletti was determined to have her revenge. Lady Carmichael believes that somehow she connived to frame Sir Eustace for her murder. I am endeavoring to discover if this is the case.”

“Lady Carmichael,” I said, “is hardly an unbiased source of information. She will have had her account from Sir Eustace. If you really mean to investigate the murder, you should interview her close friend and confidant Miss Meena Harvey, who can tell you the truth of her history with Sir Eustace. You should also interview Miss Hawkins and Miss O'Brien, who were present at the negotiations between Sir Eustace and his factory workers and can vouch for his threatening behavior.”

Something shifted in Holmes’s expression. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall. I would still, however, like to interview the members of this household, particularly Miss Ricoletti’s lady’s maid.” 

Beryl Hughs. Alone of all the servants, she knew my secret, and, I suspected, of my relationship with Emilia. It had frightened me at first, but she had for so long held my confidence that I had come to trust her as Emilia did. I did not believe that she would betray Emilia after her death. “Very well,” I said, “I will send her in to see you.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

I left the room and found Mrs Turner hovering near the doorway. “What did he want?”

“He’s a private detective, hired by Lady Carmichael to investigate Miss Ricoletti’s murder.”

Her eyes widened.

“He wants to speak with everyone in the household, starting with Hughs.”

“I’ll fetch her.”

She went back down to the kitchen in search of Beryl. I watched her go, chewing my lip. I was not sure what to make of this private detective. I had counted on the case being investigated by bumbling local constabulary. I hoped only that the ruse that Emilia and I had devised would hold. I had no fear for my own safety. If I were caught out and hanged, I would rejoice to be reunited with Emilia. But I couldn't bear the thought that her legacy might be tarnished. I wanted for her to be remembered as a heroine, a martyr. And I wanted Sir Eustace to be known as the blackguard that he was. With his stubborn refusal to negotiate with the match girls, he had forced Emilia's hand, and had so murdered her just the same as if he had pulled the trigger. It was only just that he be punished for his crime. Holmes must be led, then, to the correct conclusion.


End file.
